No, seriously. Somebody Get Me a Shovel and a Plastic Bag.

I believe in intelligent design.  That is until I take a good look at the other malformed inhabitants of our third rock.  Then I start to wonder if perhaps our great creator wasn’t dropped on His or Her omnipotent head (multiple times) as a Godly baby. Sometimes I find myself lying awake at night wondering if the atheists are right, and life on this planet is a totally random biological accident with no greater purpose involved.  Perhaps we are just a collection of bullshit cells and atoms that happened to mold together into the just-so configuration to create something resembling consciousness.

I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation for the existence of the Kardashians.

As a writer, I’m observant by nature.  This is not the gift one would think it would be.  I spend my days mired in a tangle of hard questions, like: Why does hate still exist?  Why do we still kill and torture each other and the animals?  Why did that woman think it was a good idea to color her hair the same gaudy red-gold color as the circa 1987 jacket she’s wearing today, and why did nobody mention to her that you can spot her and her hideous jacket from outer space?

(Perhaps it was a bad idea trying to write in a public coffee shop.  I’m finding the people around me quite distracting.  But I digress…)

When it comes to the collective “D’uh!” uttered by the society we’ve created for ourselves, one only needs to turn on the evening news to hear its resonating echo.  Not only can you witness international simpletons in action, but—if you’re very lucky—you catch a glimpse of some numb-nuts in the next county who did something epic such as thinking it was a good idea to trade two children for a pair of exotic pet birds.

Stories such as this are proof-positive in my opinion that we have finally reached “Old Mother Hubbard Status” when it comes to children.  There are people out there who have so many, they don’t know what to do.  Also, we’ve clearly saturated the market.  I remember a time when a healthy American child would fetch the price of a shiny new car.  Now all you get are birds.

If I’ve got my conversion-rates right, our cat Fanny has already dropped off the feathered equivalent of a kindergarten class at the back door.

(Forward all objections and hate mail about what I just said to Em_Static@gmail.com)

Hey, if you liked this, you should really stop by In Through The Out Door and read more about Bitch and Moan Mondays. I almost forgot about it, but since I'm always complaining anyway....